A Song Of Ice And Fire: A Smile of Shadows
by BluejayPrime
Summary: Ever since Arya had seen her father die at the Sept of Baelor, she had suffered from nightmares, and they had gotten much worse in the Riverlands and Harrenhal. However, nothing could have prepared her for what she saw when Clegane dragged her into the wedding hall. [Starts at about the end of season 3. Events of the show&books will or will not be included. ;) ]
1. Prologue

_The Red Woman._

He remembered her face and the way she had looked at him.

He remembered the taste of steel and shadow, black as death, with his brother's face.

Brienne, and Loras' voice when the world had already turned dark.

He had never thought much about death - he was one and twenty, so why bother with things that would need decades to come? He hadn't known what to expect when he lay there, in a puddle of his own blood, life dripping from his body along with joy and happiness, fear and love and all the other things.

_You are no king._

It had been Loras' voice, even though he knew that he would never have said such a thing. His voice had never sounded so cold, so bitter, and yet carving the words into his skin like a red-hot iron.

_Kings have fought many battles and wear the scars to show._

His brother had been a soldier, he had argued, and the other one, too, if less of a leader, so it was just a matter of time for him to become a soldier as well.

But his limbs were stiff and cold, never to move again, covered by earth and stones. The cold crept into his body, slowly, spreading through his legs and chest.

Darkness had swallowed him, and it was indeed full of terrors.

He remembered to scream with his lips shut tight.

_Kings fight._

He had never fought in something more dangerous than a tourney in all of his life.

The cold had reached his chest, spreading its poison through his veines.

He remembered eyes staring at him, eyes as blue as the frozen sea of the north, long since dead, but staring vividly from snowy fields and winter skies.

_Fight_, the voice had whispered in his ears, a voice like Loras' and Robert's and his father's, even though he had barely a memory of him, blurred faces of both dead and living, ice and fire, flames touching his skin and yet it neither blistered nor blackened at their touch.

So he had grabbed the spark and fought.

He remembered pain and the rich smell of earth, mud filling his nose and mouth while he gasped and struggled for breath, he remembered his head spinning and a sick feeling in his stomach, and cold, but this time it was not the cold of death, but the chilly winds of the autumn nights near Storm's End, and the sky wasn't black but filled with thousands and thousands of stars.

He also remembered stumbling into a peasant's hut, half-naked and covered in dirt and blood, and almost being stabbed again, with a pitchfork this time. That was something to be left out of his biography, for sure.


	2. Arya I

_Honor and courage are matters of the bone, and what a man will kill for, he will sometimes die for, too._  
**(Diana Gabaldon – "The Fiery Cross")**

**ARYA**

Arya's hands were trembling.

Again and again, she brought the stone she had brought along down on the iron lock while she could hear the direwolf inside the cage growl and hiss and making the wooden walls tremble when he threw his weight against them.

_Just be quiet!_ she begged somewhere in the back of her head; they would hear him and they would kill both of them, she did not even have a weapon, and she probably had never wished so much to have Needle back like she did right now.

"What do you think you're doing there?"

She flinched as she heard Clegane's voice. Only inches away from her, she could still hear Greywind growl and call for his master; carefully, she managed to get two of her fingers in the narrow space between the wooden planks. The wolf fell silent, curiously sniffing familiar skin.

"You can't sell me out to anyone if there's nobody left" she replied with a hiss, "Open it."

_If it wasn't already too late for that._

Clegane narrowed his eyes at her, obviously arguing with himself on how much money would be worth the extra trouble she provided.

"Step aside" he answered then, his voice surprisingly quiet.

Arya pursued her lips and quickly made a step aside; Clegane brought his sword down on the lock with such force that it was split in two. Just in time, she managed to grab Greywind's fur before he could disappear towards the feast hall; his fur stood on end, and the noises he made seemed to come straight out of a nightmare. Maybe it was her luck that, being three years of age, the giant wolf was not fully grown yet, and still he almost threw her to the ground.

"Wait!" Greywind's teeth flashed in the torchlight, but he seemed to recognize her; he stood, staring at her from bloodshot eyes. "They'll kill us all if they see you!" She quickly glanced back over her shoulder – nobody was around, but the torches were dancing vividly, and far away she could hear screams and orders being yelled.

"We need to find Robb…"

In the blink of an eye, Greywind held still at the sound of his master's name, ears perked up with attention. Arya took a deep breath and shot another quick glance over to Clegane, who obviously had decided that a few feet between him and a raging direwolf were quite a good idea.

She took Greywind's head into her hands, looking him straight in the eyes. When she had last seen him, he had been no more than a pup, following her brother around at Winterfell – now, he was almost taller than herself, experienced in battle and the taste of human flesh. Something moved behind his eyes, dark, angry, maybe scared, but wide awake, as if he was listening to every word she said.

"You need to leave" she said quietly, "You need to leave and hide, just like Nymeria. You can find us later on, but you need to leave now so they won't hurt you."

Greywind stared at her without blinking. Arya could see his chest moving; he was breathing heavily.

"You… need… to… leave" she repeated, returning his stare with one of her own, so intense that she could feel herself tearing up.

_Please. Please, go and find your sister._ The image of a giant she-wolf running through the forest came to her mind, as vivid as in one of the dreams she sometimes head. _You need to leave._

Greywind made a small whimpering sound.

Carefully, she let go; the wolf made a few steps back, seemingly more insecure than ever before, before he gave her an almost pleading look and headed for the forest, disappearing between dancing torches and black leaves.

Arya and the Hound exchanged a look – his eyebrow twitched slighty, he obviously wondered what she had done with Greywind – and she started to run, heading towards the feast hall.

The doors were closed and locked.

_Cowardscowardscowards!_, her thoughts were screaming, more names for her list, but she needed to get to know them first; Clegane grabbed her by the neck like a misbehaving pup and dragged her back behind the next corner.

"I imagine you had a plan?" he growled; she shifted and squirmed in his arms, but he didn't let go.

Her lips were moving silently as thoughts were racing through her head; she hardly felt how she was trembling all over her body. The air tasted of blood and smoke and death. Maybe she shouldn't have sent Greywind away, he could have fought for them, but the soldiers were armed with swords and crossbows, and Greywind was just one… Her head was spinning and she seemed unable to catch a clear thought.

The world seemed strangely frozen for a few seconds, then Clegane grabbed her shoulder and pushed her out into the hallway, right in front of the soldiers that were guarding the doors.

The elder one – she could catch a glimpse of red hair and pockmarks – gave Clegane a long look, one hand at the hilt of his sword.

"You're the Hound", he said then, "You're too late, they've already started."

Arya bit her tongue to avoid her teeth from chattering. She felt sick. _Cowards, cowards, cowards._

"Well, then they need to stop" Clegane answered as relaxed as if he'd been waiting for this for weeks, "The king wishes Robb Stark and his traitor mother to be executed publicly in King's Landing, not butchered by a bunch of soldiers at a wedding feast."

His grip on Arya's arm did not lessen an inch; it hurt.

"This is Arya Stark, sister to Robb, and they sent her here to identify her mother and brother, to make sure Walder Frey sends the right people to King's Landing."

The redhead gave a snort.

"Feel free to gather whatever is left of them" he replied and stepped aside.

Ever since Arya had seen her father die at the Sept of Baelor, she had suffered from nightmares, and they had gotten much worse in the Riverlands and Harrenhal. However, nothing could have prepared her for what she saw when Clegane dragged her into the wedding hall.

Her mother was surrounded by dead Northmen and some dead Freys, her dress splattered with blood, but with a raging fury in her eyes, pressing a knife against a girl's throat who could barely be of age. Robb leaned at one of the tables, his face as pale as chalk, obviously barely being able to keep himself at his feet; she caught a glimpse on dark stains on his clothes and crossbow bolts. The two of them seemed to be the only Northmen still alive; when Arya crossed the room, she could see many sigils and faces of others she'd known once – Dacey Mormont, with bloody lips and her body cut open from her hip up to her chin, a man wearing the crest of Umber, Manderlys, Lockes, Flints… the body of a dark haired, beautiful young woman, hands clutched over her bloodied skirt protectively… Arya turned away.

Walder Frey was seated at the head of the table, watching over the room with an impression as if they had disturbed him during an exceptionally tasty meal when he saw Clegane and Arya. At least he seemed to recognize the Hound, since he raised a hand and the soldiers that had already pointed their crossbows at them lowered their weapons.

"You're late, Clegane" he snarled with a voice sounding like cracking wood, "You can take their heads to King's Landing, if it pleases you…"

Catelyn stared at her daughter without a word, while Robb seemed to have trouble to see anything at all, his eyes veiled with pain and exhaustion. Arya squirmed in Clegane's hold again – _someone help him!_ – but he did not let go.

"I'll take them to King's Landing in one piece, as it pleases the king" he answered, "with an escort of your men, to show your loyalty. By order of his grace Joffrey Baratheon, the first of his name."

He pulled Arya a little closer and she could feel something cold being pressed against her own throat.

"Lady Stark, the knife… if you'd be so kind."


	3. Loras I

_"'__tis better to have love and lost,  
than never to have loved at all."_  
**(Alfred, Lord Tennyson – "In Memoriam A.H.H.")**

**LORAS**

_It took a while until the boy noticed what had woken him – the storm outside. You did get used to them over time – the keep was called Storm's End for a reason, after all – and usually, he enjoyed peeking out of his window, watching the steel colored waves hitting the rocks and the flashes of lightning in the sky. He liked to think that if he got to know this place better, from the strange weather and its secret passages to the plants and animals in the courtyard, maybe he'd miss Highgarden less and less one day…_

_For a moment, he stayed where he was, listening to the wind that howled in the night and the growling thunder somewhere above him. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine how the world must look outside – the trees, cracking and bowing in the wind, the sea, raging as if something lived in its depths – he wondered whether people would be able to sail in a storm like this… and then he remembered Renly's parents, and he felt guilt rising up in his stomach._

_He hesitated for another moment before slipping out of his bed._

_The stone floor felt colt beneath his feat, but that didn't matter; swiftly, he made his way out of his room – not entirely quiet; the iron hinges of the door creaked in the darkness, but nobody seemed to notice that – and across the hallway._

_Renly was wide awake, but that didn't surprise him. Renly didn't like the storms._

_For a moment, Loras stopped at his lord's doorstep, eyeing the twelve year old sitting on the window ledge, curled up against the window and staring outside. The door fell shut behind him and Renly flinched, giving him a nervous look as if he expected Loras to lecture him about not being in bed at this hour. He'd heard Stannis do that every now and then (but then again, he'd been hiding away in his room because Stannis scared him out of his wits at times; Renly's brother didn't like the Tyrells, and didn't try to hide it). Another flash of lightning outlined Renly's features against the glass and Loras noticed that the young Lord wasn't that much taller than he himself, even though he was four years older._

_Loras gathered his courage and climbed next to him at the window ledge._

_"__Are you unable to sleep, mylord?" he asked as politely and unbiasedly as possible._

_Renly gave him a short look. "No", he answered before continuing to stare out of the window. One of the trees down in the courtyard was bending so low that it seemed as if the storm was ripping it out by its roots; large raindrops were hitting the glass, leaving wet traces as they ran down in tiny puddles._

_Unsure of what to say, Loras held his tongue. He was still cold, but Renly was sitting right next to him, and he could feel his body heat; that made it a little easier of not wishing to get back into his own bed immediately._

_"__Robert said, he'll make me Lord of Storm's End once I'm of age", Renly said without looking at him. He didn't seem to be overly happy about this, but it explained all the yelling and shouting Loras had heard between Stannis and Robert yesterday evening before they had left. Again, he hesitated for a moment before leaning against Renly a little more._

_"__You'll be a good lord."_

_Renly made a face. "I won't be any lord at all", he answered, "because it means I'd have to fight in tourneys and stuff, and I'd have to __**marry**__."_

_The way he pronounced the latter, it sounded worse than anything in the seven hells. Loras understood; most girls he knew were neither overly intelligent or overly pretty, giggling all the time and making puppy dog eyes if they wanted boys to do anything for them. Margaery only did that if she knew she'd get sweets for it, that seemed a little more clever to Loras._

_"__And I'd have to cross the sea one day maybe" Renly continued gloomily, "Like my lord father and…"_

_Loras frowned slightly. "I'd never allow anything to happen to you, mylord."_

He felt sick.

Loras closed his eyes, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to breath calm and steadly. His blood was rushing in his ears and he could feel his heart beating heavily through his chest.

Of course, the sand colored walls around him did not belong to Storm's End, but to the Red Keep instead, and the sky outside showed nothing but a few light clouds, not the dark grey and violet of the autumn storms.

Of course, he was alone.

He could taste bile and the iron taste of blood on his tongue when he opened his eyes again. They fell upon one of the servant girls – dressed in gold and blue, obviously one of his sister's or grandmother's maids.

"What?" he muttered, closing his eyes again in a childish attempt to ignore reality a little longer.

"Lady Margaery would like you to join her at breakfast" the girl replied, long lashes fluttering and blushing slightly as Loras looked at her before she quickly disappeared again.

With a slight sigh, he rubbed his forehead. Even though he enjoyed not having to spend too much time with his grandmother – she had the habit of explaining to anyone within hearing range how much of a pretty knight her grandson had become, and how a wonderful husband he'd be one day, before pinching his cheek and making him feel like a five year old again while she'd be stuffing him with lemon cakes and then not paying attention to him anymore while she discussed the latest fashion of Highgarden with one of her servant girls – if Margaery required his presence, she'd likely need someone who was willing to throw himself between her and her future husband in case things went bad. Days had seldom started out better… but then again, all days started out the same lately.

Two hours later, he sat between his grandmother and sister at the dining table, feeling the warm sunlight of King's Landing on his skin, staring down at the deep purple in his cup and wondering how much he'd have to drink of this before he'd stop hearing his soon-to-be brother-in-law's voice, or how long he'd have to choke the little brat until his face turned the same color. Joffrey was at the other end of the table, playing around with his new sword and babbling something about Ned Stark's head. Margaery played her role rather decently, smiling lovely at her future husband, fluttering her lashes and making an admiring "Oooh!" every now and then, before she kicked her brother's shin beneath the table.

His head perked up. "Huh?" Only now he noticed that Joffrey was staring at him from cold, green eyes, and Loras forced himself to return the young king's look. "Your grace?"

"I just mentioned" Joffrey answered, his voice full of barely suppressed impatience, "how you wore Renly the Traitor's armor in battle, Ser Loras."

The heavy, fruity bouquet of the wine seemed to be stuck in Loras' throat. "Your grace?" he muttered, quickly taking another gulp of wine while hoping that Joffrey would leave it at that.

Of course, around Joffrey, hope was usually futile.

"I have a new blade, Ser Loras" he continued, obviously more than annoyed by Loras not paying enough attention to this, pointing the blade towards him.

Loras returned his gaze, his grip tightening around his cup a little. "A beautiful piece of work, your grace" he answered as politely as possible. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sansa Stark nibbling on a piece of lemon cake, pale-faced, with an expression as if she was about to either fall sick or faint within the next few minutes. Mace Tyrell shifted slightly a little further down the table, taking himself another piece of meat and obviously wildly determined to pretend that he was having breakfast all by himself.

"The blade was made of Valyrian steel", Joffrey repeated, waving it a little as a request to take a closer look, which Loras followed dutifully, muttering another "Impressive, your grace"; "It belonged to Eddard Stark, and now it belongs to me. I use my opponent's steel against them."

"Admirable, your grace" Loras replied while having one of the servants fill his cup again. It seemed as if he'd need a lot of this to last through the meal.

Joffrey narrowed his eyes at him, glaring at him in a way Loras did not like at all. "Speaking of it" he continued, "Do you still own that armor, Ser Loras? You and Lord Renly were… very close, after all."

There was no movement in Margaery's face except for her smile, which stiffened a little for only so much as the blink of an eye. Loras opened his mouth and closed it again; he could feel the hair in the back of his neck standing on end.

"Your grace?"

Joffrey smiled. "Wouldn't it be rather fitting not only to wield my enemies' steel, but to wear it as well?"

It felt as if something cold had hit his stomach; Loras could feel how he turned a little more pale while desperately searching for an answer that would not have him killed right away while thoughts (and insults) were racing through his head. Olenna started to cough as if the lemon cakes tried to strangle her right next to him, her fingernails digging into Loras' sleeve. Joffrey gave her an irritated look, Mace Tyrell froze with a piece of meat on his fork and worriedly turned over to his mother, who, though, had already pulled Loras to his feet.

"I'm not feeling very well, your grace" she coughed, her face slowly turning dark red while she still seemed to suffocate, "Loras – my boy – if you'd be so kind…"

And before he or Joffrey were able to object, she had already dragged him away from the table and back into the cool hallways of the Red Keep. Of course, the coughing seized immediately after the doors fell shut behind them.

For a few minutes, they walked next to each other in silence, their arms linked and Olenna giving the most peaceful expression of just being a grandmother taking a walk with her favourite grandson while Loras was busy maintaining control over his face (and stomach) again.

"How do you feel, dear?" Olenna asked as nonchalantly as if they were back in Highgarden, having lemon cakes and wine at one of his cousin's name days; Loras managed to swallow before uttering "Quite well, mylady, thank you".

Olenna gave him a long look.

"I'm afraid your sister is much more of a liar than you are" she answered with a small sigh, "Do her and yourself and all of us a favor and practice on that, if you please."


	4. Robb I

_If you get an infection, you get a fever; the fever is your body dealing with the infection. If you get traumatized, your mind and your brain have a reaction to that trauma. If you're not dreaming about it, something's probably wrong._  
**(Sebastian Junger)**  
**  
~*~**

**ROBB**

_He was tired, and his legs almost gave in. The grass beneath his feet was dry and stiff, the air smelled of snow and the pine forests of the North._

Every muscle in his body was aflame, red sparks were dancing behind his eyelids. He could feel cold sweat on his forehead and taste his own blood. Beneath him was something solid, wood or stone. He smelled rotten straw and mildew. Something moved next to him.

_He was hungry, but there was no time to hunt. __**Find your sister.**__ But he hadn't seen his siblings for half a lifetime…_

"Robb", someone whispered. She held his fingers close between her own, her voice sounded muffled and blurred. It was a girl's voice; he could see dark hair dancing in the dim light. "All will be well", Arya continued, "well, do you hear me? The Lannisters say you can't be killed."

_So hungry. So tired. Alone. __**Traitortraitortraitor.**__ The girl had sent him away, but he shouldn't have listened. Master had trusted him, he didn't fear humans, humans were weak and soft, even with their artificial solid furs, he knew the taste of their flesh…_

"Step aside, girl." It was the voice of a soldier, Arya's hand disappeared, he could hear her struggle and hiss like a kitten; a muffled _thud_ and she fell silent. _Arya._ He had to help her, but he was unable to move, _please, she's just a kid_…

_Master had trusted him with the life of his wife and his pup, he should have stayed but Master's tiny litter-mate had sent him away…_

"These men died for you." Talisa's voice was harsh and cold in his ears, she was as white as clay, her skin looked damp and dead. The blood on her gown did not come from the wounded soldiers she had taken care of. "I died for you. _For you_", she repeated, eyes full of accusations, "For nothing…" He tasted salt and wasn't sure where that came from. _Please._ But he was unable to utter a single word. _Please, I'm sorry…_

_He stopped at a small river to take a drink, ears nervously perked up. __**Enemy territory.**__ His stomach was roaring with hunger, but he had no time to hunt or sleep. __**Enemies. Traitors.**__ The growling in his throat did not come from his stomach. He didn't know their names, but their smell; they had been with Master, to hunt and kill and eat with him, but they had turned against him, he knew… he knew their sign, dead people, red and black and pink…_

They pulled him back on his feet; the pain made him sick, he choked. One of the soldiers made a disgusted sound. His head was spinning, his legs refused to carry him. It took two soldiers to help him. His throat was burning with thirst, his lips felt sore and dry. "Water." His voice sounded so hoarse that he barely understood himself. "Please. Water." Nobody heard him; maybe they didn't care.

**_Traitortraitortraitor!_**_Flesh was ripped to shreds between his teeth, blood ran down his throat. __**Traitor!**__ The man squealed like a dying pig as the wolf's jaws ripped his arm straight off his body. __**Hungry. No time to feed.**__ He was not alone; the wolf let go of his prey, reaching the next man within the blink of an eye. __**Prey.**__ They wore their metal skins, but he'd learned their weaknesses over time. Afterwards, he could feed._

"Over here." The man's voice was calm and relaxed. The back of his head hit solid wood. "Tie him down." He was unable to struggle anyway. He still felt sick, every breath he took seemed to rip his throat in two. "We need to take care of the bolts. You, stay here in case he plans any trouble." For a moment, there was silence; the numb feeling in his ears seemed to squeeze his head. Then he smelled red-hot metal and burned flesh and pain swallowed him whole.

_The last one was no danger. He was young, what little fur he head on his head was dark and disheveled, he smelled of fear and sweat and blood. The wolf kept a close eye on him while he fed himself, before making a few steps in his direction. The man did not move, but stared at him as if he'd never seen a direwolf before. Greywind licked some blood off his nose. __**You.**__ He lowered his head, and his jaws closed – carefully, as carefully as he managed – around the man's foreleg. __**You. Follow me. Master needs you.**_

He was cold, so cold. Every muscle in his body was trembling, and he was unable to stop it; his teeth were chattering. Someone ran soft fingers through his hair, humming quietly, holding him close, her hands on his shoulders. _Mother._ The scent of her clothes was as familiar to him as the back of his hands. _Mother._ He buried his face in her cloak, trembling and crying like a child. "I'm sorry", he whimpered with no idea of whether he meant his mother, his father, Talisa or his men, or whether she was even able to hear him, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"I know" she whispered, his head in her lap, her fingers soft and protective in his hair, "Shh, I know." She rocked him back and forth like she'd done almost twenty years ago, like he'd seen her rock Bran and Rickon back to sleep after nights full of nightmares.

Small hands calmly offered him a cup of water; only after emptying it he recognized his sister's face, framed by dark hair. The bruise on her cheek where an iron gauntlet had hit her was clearly visible even in the dark, but her face was quiet as she put the mug aside and curled up next to her brother, her head leaning on his shoulder.

Her voice quietly wavered through the darkness. "_Cersei. Joffrey. Ilyn Payne. Walder Frey…_"

Robb had no idea what to make of that, but his thoughts felt dull and sticky anyway; his eyelids were heavy and slowly he closed his eyes again. The trembling had ceased along with his tears; he felt strangely empty, hollowness spreading through his chest along with exhaustion. He drifted off to sleep, and luckily, he did not dream.

"So, will he make it to King's Landing?"

Roose Bolton's voice very obviously showed that he was anything but pleased with having to stay at the Twins for so long; he did not even look up from the parchment he held.

The Maester gave Robb's chest a crictical glance. "Well, I think so", he said finally, more to himself than towards Bolton, who still gave the impression of being occupied otherwise. Robb did his best to stare at the wall across the room and to pretend that he was not present at all.

The fever had ceased, but his head was still spinning; Frey soldiers held his arms, either to keep him from attempting to escape, but also to keep him on his feet. The room was dimly lit with torches, the air smelled moist and of rotten wood and death, his knees were weak and he gritted his teeth, focusing on keeping himself on his feet as the soldiers had to let go of his arms so he could cord up his shirt. His fingertips felt strangely numb and it took a few humiliating seconds until he could do so.

Bolton had set the parchment aside, side-eyeing him from where he sat, as watchful as a cat eyed his prey. Robb forced himself to return his look as stoic as possible.

_One month ago, you sat at my table, developing strategies with me, counselling me…_

"May I ask how much Tywin Lannister paid for my head?" he managed to ask and was mildly surprised on how calm he managed to keep his voice.

"Oh, less than you maybe think, mylord", Bolton answered jovially as if they were having dinner together, "It was more Walder Frey's idea, if you understand, and not the Lannister's, and it was more about your Lady wife and her brat, or so much I gathered. The insult, you see – and here we thought you'd leave her at the camp, but no, you brought her over to the wedding…"

Robb seemed to have swallowed broken glass. Dark circles were forming in front of his eyes; he fixed his eyes on a crack in the wall. _Breathe. Stay on your feet._

The soldiers stood as quiet as statues next to him, having obviously decided that he did not require their assistance since he was unable to run away in his current state anyway.

"Of course, now we've encountered a slight problem", Bolton continued, now rising to his feet and coming a little closer, "The Lannisters have been searching half of Westeros for your sister Arya, and originally we planned to wed her to my bastard – you see, he was to become Lord of Winterfell, and I'm sure you know that there always has to be a Stark… and I'm sure he would have treated her _overly kind_, but according to this letter there was a most unfortunate… hunting accident…"

Bolton's features seemed strangely blurred, the black circles slowly crept in on him. Every breath seemed to draw a little more energy from his body; he stared at Bolton's face and focused on not showing any emotion at all.

"Luckily, Lord Walder offered a solution", Bolton said with a small smile, "I'm sure you'll remember that this… arrangement about his men and marriages to the Starks did not only include yourself. There are one or two among his sons, who offered – from what he told me, they mentioned that her age does not matter this much…"

He could not remember to have moved at all; his body reacted instinctively as he darted towards Bolton. They both fell, red hot pain flashed through his body, but he didn't pay attention to it, bringing down his fist in Bolton's face again and again with every energy he had left, _Arya_, something warm seeped down his chest – someone grabbed his arm, twisting it so harshly that he could feel the joint giving in, he swallowed a painful sound… Bolton got back to his feet, weeping the back of his hand across his mouth. More curiously than actually shocked, he glanced at the dark red stains of blood on his pale skin before shrugging, straightening his clothes and turning over to Robb again.

The pain caused his eyes to water, but he blinked it aside, staring at Bolton through a veil of dark red mist and anger while it felt as if someone was driving a nail into his wounded shoulder. "Clegane" he hissed through his theeth, "Clegane said, in King's Landing-"

"In King's Landing", Bolton answered, "you have another sister who will surely be glad to identify you and your mother to make sure we sent the right people."

He brushed a few imaginary grains of dust from his clothes.

"I do not believe that we'll meet again, so…"

The soldiers dragged him back on his feet, someone's nails digged into his wounded shoulder; he gasped.

_Arya._

Bolton watched the soldiers preparing to leave, but then seemed to remember something, and he raised his hand.

"One minute, though…"

He came a little closer – his movements seeming as if he was lurking on some kind of prey – his eyes fixed on Robb's face. The blow hit his chest exactly where one of the crossbow bolts had done so only a short time ago, and when his knees gave in while he coughed and winced and gasped for air, his vision turning dark already, he could hear Bolton's voice: "The Lannisters send their regards."


	5. Azor Ahai I

_Whatever I will become will be what God has chosen for me._  
**(Elvis Presley)**

**AZOR AHAI**

Of course, it was raining, and he hated the rain.

Large drops fell out of a steely grey sky, splashing onto leaves and twigs and grass and his neck; his clothes were soaking wet already, and if it went on like this, he considered it likely that he'd die of pneumonia before he even reached so much as the slightest bit of civilization again. Unfortunately, he had no idea where to turn for that either, aside from that he'd likely have to follow the Kingsroad. The way from Storm's End to Highgarden was overly familiar to him, but it was one thing to travel on horseback with a number of friends, and another to be on foot, alone, while not being much of a hunter either (Robert had preferred to do the killing, and he'd always been grateful for that).

With a small sigh, he brushed a few streaks of dark, wet hair out of his face (he was rather sure that a haircut would've been a decent idea, not to speak of new clothes – the ones he currently wore came from the peasants in whose hut he'd stumbled in the middle of the night, and they'd been kind enough not to stab him again this instant). _Highgarden_, he reminded himself, the Tyrells would help him, _Loras_ would help him.

When he closed his eyes, he could see the outlines of a familiar face. Light brown curls, golden eyes, a cocky smile when he saw him observing the tourneys while shoving roses into the hands of stupid teenage ladies among the audience who swooned at the look of said smile, unknowing that it wasn't meant for any of them. He'd brought him one of these roses, too, once; in secret, of course…

When he reached the village, the rain had ceased into a soft drizzle. It was peaceful; at the first glance, at least, and it took him a while to notice that the cloud of smoke that hovered over its roofs could hardly come from funnels and chimneys alone.

The air still smelled of rain and wet leaves, but when he came closer, that couldn't hide the smell of ashes any longer. Men in red and gold uniforms moved between the houses – Lannister men…

He could feel his chest tighten as he froze, unsure of what to do.

_Your people_, a voice in the back of his head noted, _your lands, the Lannisters have no right to be here. These are your villages who've been delivering bread and cheese and fruits to Storm's End for decades…_

The clouds grew larger, and he approached the small group of huts.

Of course, these were not his villages anymore. They likely belonged to Stannis now, didn't they?

_Because of me_, it whispered, _my fault…_

He almost stumbled into a group of bodies right at the village's entrance.

It consisted of three young men, the eldest maybe twenty years old, the youngest not even twelve. They had been hanged by the soldiers; one of them was still wrapped in a cloak of blue and green with a golden stag's head on it, their features distorted by a gruesome death. Sickness and guilt dwelled up in his stomach, and he quickly turned away.

Most of the huts seemed abandoned. Doors and windows had been smashed in with axes and heavy boots, dark-red puddles could be seen every now and then on muddy floors; large mosquitos were already drawing slow circles above them. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, but that didn't help him to blend out the iron smell.

_It's just blood_, he reminded himself, _we all have it in us and sometimes, it spills…_

It seemed a lifetime ago since Loras had told him that.

A girl of maybe thirteen was sitting on the steps leading up to another house with a thatched roof. Her hair was a mess of brown curls which seemed painful familiar at the first sight; her dress was torn and splattered with blood, she was quietly rocking back and forth. He made a step towards her – _can I help you?_ – she stared at him as if she had seen a ghost before starting to scream in a strange, high-pitched voice, scurrying off between the houses as quickly as she could.

_My fault. My fault…_

He continued his way with a numb feeling in his chest, passing corpses of men and women and children, some having been struck down where they stood, others covering their children and spouses with their own bodies as if they'd been trying to shield them from a lethal blow.

The surviving peasants had been rounded up at the village square, guarded by a few soldiers again in red and gold armor. The rest of them was busy pillaging what was left, gathering food and weaponry and everything that seemed of any worth, while a group of three went on to interrogate the prisoners.

"Is there gold in the village?" Words wavered through the air. "Silver? Steel?"

They questioned a girl maybe twelve years of age who obviously had not the slightest idea what they were talking about; he quickly turned his head away but a muffled shriek and a splattering sound told him very clearly that the soldiers did not intend to waste their time.

_My fault._

His hands were shaking; he clenched his fists and forced himself to take another deep breath.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself face to face with a red-and-gold helmet.

"You lost, friend?"

A sword's hilt struck his temple so hard that he stumbled; from the corner of his eye he saw the soldiers pick another boy from the group of prisoners who had the same red hair like their first victim; an elderly woman screamed and struggled, and then the world turned dark and he didn't feel it anymore when he hit the muddy ground.


	6. Jon I

_Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?_

**(Walt Whitman)**

**JON**

The sound of hooves and horses woke him at sunrise.

Every muscle in his body was tensed up and stiff from the cold; it took him a moment until he was able to shake off the weariness. Putting on his clothes and boots seemed to take longer than usual; Sam was already down at the yard when he arrived.

It was a group of almost two dozen men, all of them dressed in black, most of them on horseback. Their faces were red from the cold, and they had obviously been on their way for some time; the manes of their horses and the fur of their cloaks was full of snow and ice.

Their leader was a man whose age Jon could barely guess, with keen grey eyes, sharp features and dark hair he wore surprisingly short. Below the heavy furs of his clothes, he was slim, almost wiry, and his movements were as swift as a cat's as he leaped from the back of his horse and handed its reins over to Sam, who had trouble to keep hold of them.

"Brandon Sand", he introduced himself and Jon frowned slightly (he had never seen someone who looked less like a Dornishman) while Brandon gave his horse's neck a soft pat, "First Ranger of the Eastwatch, we've been send as reinforcements. Where's your Lord Commander or whoever has taken over his position?"

"I was his steward" Jon answered, a little taken aback by the fact that Brandon obviously intended to take his matters into his own hands, "Jon Snow."

Only then he realized that he likely was not in the position to take over any official businesses.

"You better speak to Maester Aemon" Sam suggested shyly, "He'll be up with the ravens, uh… I'll go get him here…"

He hurried away while Brandon looked over Jon from head to toe beneath a raised eyebrow.

"Jon Snow of Winterfell? Ned Stark's bastard?"

Jon pursued his lips. "Yes", he answered.

Brandon narrowed his eyes only so much, maybe because of the icy winds that could be felt even down here. Something in his expression seemed strange to Jon, but it was gone before he was able to find out what it was.

Sam returned, stumbling down the stairs followed by Maester Aemon who introduced himself to the newcomers, and yet Jon could feel Brandon's eyes resting on him when he turned around to make his way back to the living quarters. Sam hurried to his side, followed by Ghost.

"From the Eastwatch", he said, "That's good, isn't it? Against the Wildlings, I mean…"

"Yes" Jon muttered, "We'll be fifty men instead of fifteen against a few thousand Wildlings then…"

He continued his way, hearing Sam's voice only from the distance until the young man reached out for his arm.

"_Jon._"

He'd missed Sam's last sentence; he stood and turned around. "What is it?"

His friend seemed strangely tensed up and even more nervous than usual. He'd only twice before seen him in such a state; Jon felt his stomach tighten eventually. _Oh no…_

"It's about your brother" Sam said, confirming Jon's worst fears, "There was a raven – he said – well, the letter said – there was an ambush – a trap, I mean, at the Twins… Walder Frey has…"

"Is he alive?" Jon's voice sounded a lot sharper than he had intended; Sam flinched slightly before giving a quick nod.

"Yes, yes" he said, "But – he was imprisoned. Along with his mother, and uh – his sister, they said…"

Jon stared at him.

"Sister?"

"Oh, yes." Sam gave a smile, obviously happy to be able to give him good news (or as good as they could be), "Arya – the younger one, didn't you say that?"

Jon's heart skipped a beat – _Arya, she's alive, she's not a hostage in King's Landing_ – but then Sam's news hit him with full force.

"Imprisoned?" he repeated, "What – what does that mean?"

It was a stupid question, of course.

"They'll take them to King's Landing" Sam said quietly, looking so full of guilt as if it had been his very own fault, "Robb – Robb Stark and his mother, I mean, so they can answer for their crimes…"

_To King's Landing._ Jon ran a hand over his face, trying to keep his thoughts straight. _To answer for their crimes._ They would be executed.

"And Arya…?"

Sam slightly pursued his lips.

"They said she's to marry one of the Freys…"

Jon felt how his face turned pale. "Are you joking? She's elven years old!"

Gritting his teeth, his eyes wandered around the courtyard without even so much as a single idea of what to do.

_She's elven years old and they're going to execute my brother._

The images in his head seemed far too vivid – _Robb, beaten and bloodied in front of a crowd screaming for his head_; the words hanged, drawn and quartered showed up in his mind, the punishment for traitors – Joffrey had granted Ned Stark a merciful death after all – _Arya, in a white dress that had been made for someone much larger than herself, large grey eyes full of fear_…

Sam's soft touch at his arm got him back into reality; he stared at him as if he saw him for the first time. Ghost sneaked up the stairs on silent paws, rubbing his head against Jon's leg as if he knew that his master was in need of a little assistance.

"Jon" Sam said quietly, "I'm so sorry…"

"I know." His voice felt hoarse and barely his own. "Just – just give me a moment, will you?"

Sam gave him another worried look, but he turned to make his way back to Maester Aemon.

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, sinking back against the wooden door of the living quarters. Ghost gave a small whimpering sound, curling himself up next to him; Jon pursued his lips and buried his hands in the wolf's white fur.

_Arya and Robb…_

"Trouble?"

He narrowed his eyes at Brandon who had silently approached him, watching him with interest before his eyes turned over to Ghost.

"What is _that_?"

"A direwolf", Jon replied gloomily. Couldn't he just have a moment of peace?

Brandon gave him another long look.

"What happened?" he asked finally, his voice now surprisingly serious.

Jon rested the back of his head against the damp wood, his eyes restlessly wandering across the grey sky.

"My brother was taken prisoner at the Twins" he answered simply after a small pause, "They are going to execute him in King's Landing. And my eleven year old sister is to be married to one of those responsible for that."

Again, something strange moved in Brandon's face. Pity? Anger?

"I see" he answered, maybe a little too calm, "I'm sorry."

Ghost stood, making a few quick steps over to Brandon, sniffing his coat. Brandon gave the wolf a quick glance, but did not step back; Jon could not help but to feel a pang of admiration at the man's cold-bloodedness. Ghost almost reached up to the man's chest, after all.

Down in the courtyard, another group of rangers had returned from their patrol. They were few, and from what Jon saw, their numbers had decreased even more during their patrol – some of them showed bad looking gashes and scratches, one seemed to have trouble to keep himself at the back of his horse, most likely due to two broken arrows stuck in his right shoulder. Inevitably, Jon could feel his own scars on his back starting to itch at the sight.

Slowly, he followed Brandon down the stairs again.

The sick feeling in his stomach grew stronger when he recognized the slim figure standing between the rangers, with rays of sunlight dancing like flames on her hair.


	7. Loras II

_I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love._  
**(Mother Teresa)**

**LORAS**

_Renly's touch was rays of sunlight and butterfly wings, grass stains on silk and laughter, kisses as soft as feathers and as sweet as peach juice. It was summer, Renly was nineteen, he had just turned sixteen. "I love you", he said quietly, brushing a blade of grass from familiar skin, feeling the soft vibrating of Renly's chest as he laughed. "I know" he answered and kissed him._

Olyvar's skin was lighter than Renly's, and his hair was blond instead of dark, but when he closed his eyes, that didn't make much of a difference.

_Renly's touch was passion and fire, sheets drenched with sweat and salt, hot breathing beneath the moon. "I love you" his voice whispered against Loras' ear; he felt well-known fingers in his hair. "I know" he answered breathlessly against Renly's lips. It was night, and outside the walls raged yet another storm._

He could feel Olyvar's nails on his back, bare skin on his belly and the movement of his hips beneath him. Sometimes, closing his eyes didn't help; Olyvar was slim where Renly had been well-trained, he was a few inches shorter than him, and his smile lacked any warmth.

_Renly's touch was home and security, warmth and perfection, soft fingertips on bruises and scratches from the last joust, reproachful looks when he deemed anything too risky, admiration and euphoria. "Will I ever get one of these roses myself?" Renly asked and he returned his grin. "I'll get one for you."_

"Leave."

His voice was quiet, but firm. Olyvar gave him a look that almost seemed hurtful, and Loras narrowed his eyes.

"I said leave", he hissed, "Take your money and go."

He closed his eyes until the soft whisper of silk and the door falling shut told him that he was alone. Then, he straightened himself up and gathered his clothes.

His steps led him towards the godswood. He had never been overly religious, but he enjoyed the calmness and the solitude, no curious looks and no stupid questions, only cool winds and trees. In one of the more reclusive spots, he sat down, burying his face in his hands.

_Renly._

It had worked surprisingly well to push aside any thoughts of him, not only through Olyvar's help. Still, ever since his dream which had been almost a week ago it felt as if old wounds had opened again, and the pain had become even worse than before.

Not a single night had passed where he'd not woken up, with tears on his cheeks and the feeling of cold, dead skin beneath his fingers, quivering with ecstasy, the touch of Renly's hands and the taste of his lips as vividly on his own as if he'd only just left, suffocating beneath the bone-crushing feeling of loss and emptiness in his chest, with the useless hope that, the next time he opened his eyes, he would find Renly next to him and they would be back at Storm's End.

His eyes had started to burn again and quickly he pressed his eyelids together, trying to focus on something different, with the effect of his thoughts drifting away to Margaery's wedding and to her future husband and the fact that he occupied a throne that should have been Renly's…

_The metal felt smooth and solid beneath his hands, warm from Renly's body and the summer sun when Loras helped him to close the final buckles. Renly gave a suspicious look and a small sigh; Loras grinned._

_"__You look fine, milord."_

_Renly shot a glance towards him over his shoulder. "I look like a knight", he answered, "I've never even…"_

_"__You are the Lord of Storm's End", Loras replied with a smile while still busy to adjust Renly's cloak. The fabric matched his eyes. "Or you will be, once you've sworn yourself to your brother down in the courtyard, you're a grown man now, it's your duty."_

_Renly seemed anything but pleased at the prospect, but the smile returned to his face for a moment as his eyes followed Loras' fingers, before the thought of his brothers had it vanish again._

_"__Stannis is not here, is he?"_

_"__No", Loras answered calmly, "but I am, isn't that enough, milord?" With a grin, he continued his work until the dark velvet flowed over Renly's chest in heavy waves of mossy green. "That's better" he noted, "They'll love you."_

_Renly gave a reluctand smile. "Will they?"_

_Their eyes met and Loras raised his hand to brush a streak of dark hair out of Renly's face._

_"__Of course" he said quietly, "most of them love you already."_

_He stepped behind him once again to organize the rest of his cloak, their eyes met again in the mirror and he pressed a soft kiss on Renly's neck as if it was the most normal thing in the world._

Footsteps on the gravel walk brought him back into reality; his head perked up, just in time to see Sansa Stark approach, who, at his sight, froze immediately.

_Great_, the very thing he needed right now was some admirer that wished to comfort him in any way – and then again, Lady Sansa's eyes were red from tears herself, and maybe she was in search of someone to comfort _her_, which he didn't wish to do either. Luckily (for him), she had a husband to take care of that.

Quickly, he rose to his feet, muttering a small excuse and making for the hallways, but before he could do more than a couple of steps, her voice held him back.

"Ser Loras…?"

He hopefully managed not to show any particular sign of emotion when he turned around.

"Lady Sansa?"

She was pale; obviously he was not the only one to get too little sleep at the moment.

Sansa gathered some courage and approached.

"What brings you here, Ser Loras?" she asked quietly.

Loras pursued his lips.

_Train to be a better liar_, Olenna had told him.

"Solitude, milady" he answered politely, "I was raised in the faith of the seven, but that does not mean that I am unable to appreciate the reclusiveness of the godswood every now and then."

_Damp leaves and the rich smell of earth, seagulls in the sky and whispered caresses, beard stubble and Renly's lips at his neck, his nails digging into the soft skin on his hips with a choked moaning, we must be the most devout couple in all of the seven kingdoms…_

Sansa gave him a long look. "I see" she replied then, her voice still calm.

A moment of almost awkward silence followed.

"I'm sorry about Lord Renly" Sansa said finally, her voice quiet, but honest.

Something in Loras' stomach tightened. "I'll tell my sister that", he answered, swallowing the notion of that she had already said something along these lines while he had still been betrothed to her.

"I did not tell that to Lady Margaery" Sansa replied a little stiffly, "I told it to you."

His mouth felt strangely dry. "…milady?"

She hesitated for a moment before taking a seat at one of the stone benches, gesturing for him to join her; his legs moved without him actually feeling it.

Again, there was silence, aside from birds singing in the trees; Sansa's slim white hands were curled up in her lap and she nervously tugged on the seams of her sleeves.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you", she said softly after another moment, "I just thought – after all these rumors…"

Loras' eyebrow twitched slightly. "What rumors?" Of course, he was well acquainted with those; it didn't matter much to him as long as they were only about his own preferences, but whenever they included Renly…

Sansa flinched barely visible. "You were Lord Renly's squire at Storm's End", she answered, "And his page, and then…"

She blushed, swallowing 'his lover'.

"I remember the few weeks we were engaged" she quickly continued while her face turned even darker, because she obviously had realized how inappropriate their little chat was, "And I thought about – some things, and I wondered…"

Loras stared at her. "You are actually wondering whether I was engaged in an inadequate relationship with my sister's husband?" he asked, while every fibre and every muscle in his body screamed _Liar_ at him.

"No." Sansa's voice was even lower now. "I wondered whether you loved him."

Loras' lips moved in silence while he tried to gather a straight thought or anything that would help him to answer with the appropriate lies, anything that would not leave him or Renly or either of their families in the deepest of disgrace, _is that a trick?_, but Sansa Stark was hardly in the position to play any kind of tricks with other members of the court, and it was very unlikely for her to help Joffrey to defile Renly's memory even more, his fingers twitched uneasily and quickly he clenched his fists.

"Always." His voice was a bare whisper. "From my first day at Storm's End, until – always…"

He barely managed to conceal the sobbing in his breath, but he couldn't hold back the tears now; surprisingly, Sansa neither shrieked nor scurried off hysterically to tell each and everyone that the awful rumors about him and Renly were true. She stayed, handing him a handkerchief with a face of porcelain and ivory, listening quietly while words were streaming from his lips he'd never uttered in almost ten years, not even towards Margaery, as if Sansa's words had brought down every wall he'd build up in years of carefulness and secrets, grieving for the man he loved in the company of a girl he barely knew.


	8. Robb II

_True friends stab you in the front._

**(Oscar Wilde)**

**ROBB**

They had tied him to the saddle to make sure that he was able to keep himself on the back of his horse. The rope cut into his thighs and wrists, but he barely felt the pain.

Clegane's face showed no sign of emotions as they left the Twins behind them; if he had noticed that Arya was not with them, he didn't show it. Maybe he didn't care; maybe he'd start to worry about it once Joffrey wondered where one of his Stark girls was. Maybe His Grace decided to burn the Twins to the ground. Hopefully he did.

Lady Catelyn seemed to agree with him on that matter. Her face was as pale as Robb had never seen her before, and the look in her eyes would have been frightening if he'd only cared a little more.

His gaze was fixed on his wrists, bloody and bruised from the rope, and on the mane of his horse while the autumn sun burned the skin on his neck and he noticed somewhere in the back of his head that he likely should have been in pain, but there was nothing left, as if he'd been dead already, suffocated by the emptiness in his chest and his bones and his veins while everyone around him still saw him breathing.

When they first stopped, he had no idea of how long they'd been on their way. It was about midday, the sun was high above in the sky. His mother dismounted her horse as if she had never done anything else than to ride towards her own execution throughout all her life, being accompanied by a group of five or six Frey soldiers; the sunlight made her auburn hair gleam like liquid metal when she, without any sign of distress or fear, came over to him and started to tug at the ropes that bound him. Clegane stepped up to her and surprisingly gently pushed her aside despite the glare she shot him when she saw the knife in his hands, before cutting the ropes himself and helping Robb to dismount the horse.

The world blurred in front of his eyes and he clung to the reins of his horse to keep himself straight on his feet.

"Want a drink, your grace?" There was no sarcasm in Clegane's voice as he held a wooden mug out to him; somewhere deep inside of Robb a spark of resistance lit up.

"No" he replied hoarsely, "I don't need your help."

Clegane shrugged and turned away, the smell of cheap wine hanging in the air as he drank himself before handing the wine over to another soldier.

Someone's fist hit him right between his shoulders and sent him straight to the ground. Pain flared up in his body; Catelyn took his arm and helped him to straighten himself up without a word.

It was the first time he saw her ever since the talk with Roose Bolton. She seemed a little slimmer than the last time he'd seen her, but then again, he had no idea how much time had passed while they had been in the Frey dungeon. Catelyn's clothes and her face were dirtier than he remembered, but her hair was well-done and her bearing was still that of a noble lady, even though she did not look like one.

"You need to go" he said quietly, but with a firm look.

Catelyn gave a small huff. "No" she said before reaching out and wiping a few drops of sweat off his forehead, "but you need to eat and drink."

He grabbed her wrist, quietly surprised by how much power was still left in his body.

"You need to leave" he repeated quietly, but with a sharp voice, "They won't follow you, they won't look for you, I'm the one Joffrey wants-"

"No" she repeated herself, her voice still calm. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, placing a kiss on his hair as she hadn't done it anymore since he'd been eleven years old. "But you will eat and drink and stay alive, and if it's the last thing I do."

The soldiers had made themselves at home at the small clearing by now. Three of them were seated on treetrunks and rocks, together with the Hound, and obviously involved in some kind of drinking game while another one had started to gather firewood at the edges of the wood.

Catelyn had started to bandage his wrists as best as she could; it took Robb a moment until he noticed that she likely just needed something to keep herself busy.

"To king Joffrey!" someone roared and from the corner of his eye he saw how they refilled their cups.

"How are you?" Catelyn asked quietly. Her fingers felt strangely cold; the fever still sneaked back into his bones every now and then.

He managed to raise a corner of his mouth in an attempt to smile. "Never felt any better" he answered. His head sank back against his mother's shoulder, his lids felt terribly heavy…

_…__dry leaves beneath his feet, familiar smell, autumn winds…_

"To the heir of Winterfell!"

Someone seemed to have emptied a bucket of ice water over his head; he could feel how he started to shake, his fingers burying into the grass to avoid any movement. Beneath his hands, he felt damp leaves and the soft movements of a child that would never see the light of day.

_To the heir of Winterfell._

He felt sick. Catelyn's hands rested on his shoulders, holding him close while keeping up the illusion of protection only a mother could give.

One of the soldiers glanced back at them over his shoulder, obviously to make sure that neither of them died and that they listened carefully; he seemed to have trouble to see straight, though – whatever they drank, it did a good job.

Catelyn ran her fingers through his hair, but didn't say a word.

Their horses had been tied to the branches of a nearby tree, but they didn't show any interest in food. Instead, they seemed tense, one of them nervously threw back his head while the others had perked their ears up in fearsome attention. The reaction was so familiar to Robb that he only noticed it when Catelyn softly pressed his upper arm; it took him some effort to turn his gaze away from the soldiers (and from the image of bashing their heads in at the rocks they were sitting on). The soldier who had been gathering firewood at the edge of the wood was gone…

A mass of grey fur and flashing teeth hurled itself out of the bushes, ripping out a man's throat before the soldiers even managed to get a hold of their weapons. Another fell with two arrows in his chest when Clegane nonchalantly – as if he had not expected anything less – grabbed his own sword, cutting off the third soldier's right arm before burying his dagger up to the hilt in the man's chest. He let go of his opponent and threw the knife over to Catelyn who stared at him with her mouth half agape.

Greywind seemed a little surprised himself, but then decided not to consider Clegane much of a threat. Instead, he hurried over to Robb, pressing a damp nose against his master's cheek.

All of that had taken less than five minutes, and Robb felt something burn behind his eyes as he wrapped his arms around the direwolves neck, burying his face in his fur.

_Where have you been?_

The wolf's tongue brushed over his cheek and ear, he made small whimpering sounds when pressing himself to Robb's body as if he meant to apologize for having taken so long. It took a few minutes before Robb allowed his mother to free his hands.

Greywind gave him a long look from warm yellow eyes, his tail twitching slightly before he snuggled his head against Robb's once again. His fur was messy and full of dirt, he had lost weight as if he hadn't eaten in weeks, dried blood was sticking to his body every now and then, but it didn't seem to be his own. A vivid image flashed through Robb's head as he pressed his forehead against Greywind's – _dark red and pink uniforms with the sigil of a flayed man, a young man's face distorted with pain; he bore a strange resemblance to_ – he felt a pang of satisfaction somewhere deep inside, rubbing Greywind's ears with a grim smile. _Looks like a hunting accident._

From the corner of his eye, he noticed movement. Clegane was busy stripping the dead soldiers of all things of wealth, but it was Greywind's companion Robb focused on, as quiet as a shadow between the trees, one hand clinging to the longbow Robb had seen him use at the courtyard of Winterfell for countless times. At first, he had trouble to recognize him at all. The usual smug grin had vanished from Theon's face; his eyes seemed strangely dull, but maybe it was only Robb's imagination. His hands that held the bow he'd used were covered in ugly scars, giving them a strange, torn appeareance; his whole appearance had a strangely haunted air about it, and he himself seemed entirely out of place, but he met Robb's eyes with his own and his look was surprisingly firm.

Catelyn rose to her feet, the knife still in her hand.

"You've got some nerve, Greyjoy" Robb said quietly.

Thousands of thoughts were running through his head – _he killed Bran and Rickon, he took Winterfell, why is he here now?_ – and maybe for the first time in the last two years he had not a single idea of what to do.


	9. Margaery I

_Ridicule dishonors a man more than dishonor does._

**(Francois de La Rochefoucauld)**

**MARGAERY**

As a child, Margaery had always enjoyed to watch her brothers at the training yard. Being the second youngest of four children (and being her fathers precious little princess) it always had an encouraging effect to know that all of her brothers would be knights, eager to protect her from dragons and monsters and whatever dangers the world would bring.

At the age of five or six years, when Loras – being the brother closest to her, since they were only about one year apart – had started to train with a sword himself, she'd envied him. He hadn't been old enough to wield anything aside from a wooden stick and to ride anything but a pony, but she'd started to wonder why she herself wasn't allowed to defend her house beneath a banner of golden roses. She'd even asked her parents about that one day, and a moment of very awkward silence had followed, until they'd continued their dinner as if nothing ever happened. Afterwards, Olenna had asked for her, and when she'd been alone with her young niece, she'd explained to her that while noble ladies were not allowed to wield a sword, they had weapons of their own…

Her palms felt damp and cold; she wiped them off at her skirt, her gaze fixed upon her brother's slim figure at the training yard.

At first, she'd actually believed it. Joffrey had admired her brother's skill, and that was rather common among the young lords – the ladies usually had more interest in the fact that his hand was still bare, despite his engagement to Cersei Lannister – Loras was the pride of Highgarden, after all, despite being the youngest brother of three. Now, of course, she cursed herself for having believed even one word of Joffrey's praise about her brother's success in the battle of Blackwater. The king's words had been followed by an invitation for Loras to train with him in the following weeks, before he had turned over to Margaery, that razor-like smile of his on his face, and asked her whether she'd enjoy to watch them at the training yard, and she'd known. It was a test, of course – he was testing their loyalty, and since he didn't have their father's head on a spike for that, her brother's dignity would have to do for now.

The last time, Olenna's quick reaction towards Joffrey's insults had saved them most of the trouble – he'd hopefully forgotten about Renly's armor by now – but she could hardly shield them from this.

Every day since then, Joffrey had asked for her brother and another session of swordfighting practice, knocking the weapon out of his hand or even pushing him to the ground over the admiring cheers from the rest of his court, while, of course, each of them knew that Loras easily could have bested him, but didn't, to save himself and his family from the king's wrath. Nobody ever dared to say that aloud, though, and all Margaery could to was to try and keep a close eye on Loras, reminding him not to lose his temper every now and then.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Sansa Stark. She seemed equally displeased with their situation, standing next to Tyrion and another blond-haired young knight Margaery didn't know; Cersei, however, could barely hide the smile on her face and Margaery quickly turned away, resisting the urge to throw a handful of grapes on her.

"There is no honor in this" Brienne said quietly, allowing only for Margaery to hear her voice, as the pommel of Joffrey's sword hit Loras' chest and he obediently took a few steps back.

Cursing the Lannisters and all of their children and bannermen and whoever else was affiliated with them internally, Margaery tried to focus on the grape she'd just eaten, hoping that the chewing movements of her jaw would hide any grimaces she could not avoid to make.

She'd also enjoyed to watch her brothers in tourneys; Renly and Robert Baratheon himself had equally enjoyed to host those. Of course, most people's attention – especially after Willas' accident – had been focused on Loras who'd be busy handing red and white roses to noble ladies in the crowd (who, usually, had been chosen by Olenna and Margaery before), but it had been Margaery's task to give her favors to a few equally selected knights, strengthening her house's reputation. Her enthusiasm – even though, of course, it had always been for one of her brothers in the end – had always fueled their spirits (and encouraged their hopes to win the favor of House Tyrell and Margaery's hand itself). Those experiences, however, were quite helpful in knowing when to cheer for Joffrey, even though it left the bitter taste of treachery on her tongue.

Loras rose back to his feet and Margaery could see his grip tighten around the wooden hilt of his training weapon beneath Joffrey's watchful gaze. She sent a quiet thank you to every god willing to listen when she saw that Loras seemed yet able to keep control of his face; the silent grim and the tension on his eyes could be seen as a sign of being strictly focused on his training instead of Joffrey being inches away from getting beaten up and having his ass handed to him by a very angry knight.

"I'm afraid you don't live up to your reputation, Ser Loras" Joffrey noted and Margaery caught herself gritting her teeth. Loras' face showed no movement, but his next blow caused Joffrey's arm to tremble. "I thought you were a member of Lord Renly's Kingsguard?"

Margaery's fingernails left tiny crescents in her palms as she involuntarily clenched her fists. _Don't you dare to go there, you little…_

But he did.

"I guess that is why his assassination was that easy" Joffrey added with that terrible half-smile of his. Margaery's heart skipped a beat as she saw the expression on her brother's face, and with his next step, Loras' weapon hit the young king straight in the face.

Joffrey fell; Cersei was moving so quickly that she pushed Garlan out of her way as she hurried over to her son, and Margaery followed on her heels. In a first impulse, she'd almost reached out for Loras, but just in time she remembered her role, turning over to Joffrey instead, avoiding to touch him (and remind him of her presence) though.

The young king had pressed one of his sleeves against his nose and the light fabric surprisingly quickly turned dark red.

"You!" Cersei's face was distorted with pure hatred as she turned over to Loras; Margaery almost expected her to flash her teeth and claw his face. "How dare you to endanger your king's life like that?"

"Mother…" Joffrey's voice was muffled and compressed; Loras had broken his nose, as it seemed. One of the kingsguard knights helped him to his feet and Joffrey smiled again, which didn't necessarily help to calm Margaery – smeared with blood, his expression was anything but friendly. "It was an accident, mother" he said while Margaery had trouble to believe her ears, "That happens."

The Tyrell siblings exchanged a quick, but warning look. Both of them likely had preferred Joffrey to scream for Loras' head immediately.

"That'll do for today, Ser Loras" Joffrey addressed Margaery's brother, reaching out for his hand to shake it. Loras' reaction seemed as if he'd fallen into a trance; Joffrey's bloody fingers left prints on his sleeve before the boy king – leaning on a member of the kingsguard – turned over to find Maester Pycelle.

Margaery did not hesitate for a second as she grabbed her brother's hand, pulling him along with her and back into the cool hallways of the Red Keep, followed by the curious looks of a few of her handmaidens. She only stopped once they were out of hearing range for the court; just in time to see Loras battering his fist against one of the stone pillars with such force that his knuckles started to bleed.

"I know", Margaery said quietly, quickly taking his wounded hand into her own, "I know, do you hear me?"

"That disgusting little-"

She let go, placing a finger on his lips instead. "That'll cost you your head if anybody hears you" she reminded him, "I'm here, it's fine…"

She wrapped her arms around her brother's slim waist, pulling him close and feeling his shoulders tremble next to her.

"It wasn't your fault" she whispered into lightbrown curls and against his temple, "You're aware of that, aren't you? It wasn't your fault, he just meant to hurt you…"

Successfully, though, and she'd no idea what would happen to her brother now.

Loras gave her an almost painful look, and with a small shock she realized that despite being taller than her and despite being one of the most famous knights in the seven kingdoms, he still was her baby brother, playing war with the other boys at the courtyard of Highgarden and eager to become famous, looking up to his elder siblings from trustful golden eyes.

"Maggie, why do you have to marry him?" His voice was choked by emotions; Margaery gave a small smile.

"Stannis would be worse, I guess" she answered, once again taking his hand. Loras pursued his lips and didn't answer.

After a moment of hesitation, Margaery brushed a soft kiss atop his bloody knuckles. "I want you to allow someone to have a look at this", she said softly, "And then we need to think about our next step."

"Any step away from this city would be a start" Loras replied gloomily.

Margaery gave a small smile, though her face felt surprisingly stiff.

"I need you to do anything they want" she said quietly, but with a firm look into his eyes, "Anything, do you hear me? I'm serious, Loras, I hope you don't believe that Joffrey actually meant that?"

Loras gave a small nod. "What else?"

Margaery hesitated again. "I need you" she said finally, pressing his fingers between her own once again, "You could think about joining the kingsguard once again."

Loras pursued his lips. "I won't join the kingsguard" he answered, "I won't spend the rest of my life to watch over that-"

"Do you prefer to marry his mother?" Margaery asked sharply; Loras flinched slightly as if she'd reached out for him.

"Don't get me started on that one" he muttered, and Margaery gave a sigh.

"If you joined the kingsguard, you wouldn't only be tasked with protecting Joffrey, but you could protect me as well" she reminded him softly, "Think about it. Please. For me, hmm?"


End file.
